


Diesel and Carbon

by Affectionary



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: M/M, Scents & Smells, Short, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-19
Updated: 2019-11-19
Packaged: 2021-02-13 06:41:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21490030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Affectionary/pseuds/Affectionary
Summary: God, his dreams will be much more vivid from now on.
Relationships: Peter Parker/Tony Stark
Comments: 6
Kudos: 80
Collections: Mind The Age Gap Flash Fic Prompt Meme





	Diesel and Carbon

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by [RedLink](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedLink/pseuds/RedLink) in the [agegapflashficpromptmeme](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/agegapflashficpromptmeme) collection. 

> **Prompt:**
> 
> Senses dialed to 11.
> 
> ... wait you need more ?  
OK how about taking into account the final s in senses and go with olfactory sensitivity for a change ?  
Peter being in an enclosed place with Tony (car, elevator,..) and getting completely overwhelmed by how good that man smells, maybe triggered into release when Tony touches him, asking what's wrong ?  
I'm ok with underage if it stays UST, otherwise please fire away the smut !

It's tamped down most of the time, but most of the time, he isn't trapped in an elevator with Mr. Stark. 

Peter is so used to everything being so intense. 

_"You're so easily impressed. Makes me feel like a goddamn superhero."_

He knows he doesn't do well in confined spaces. Not because of any phobia or anything, but because everything is immediate, everything an irritant.

He can smell the heated air, stray, floating diesel and carbon. A butterfly had landed on him while he had fallen asleep after swinging around the city; He can smell the mossy, dewy pollen it left on his skin. 

Mr. Stark doesn't seem to notice, proud of his elevator music. One of those old rock bands that he likes, Peter isn't sure which. "You're not going to guess? It's Black Sabbath, Peter."

Does exasperation have an aroma? Maybe it's fond, and tart, makes a person either want to pucker out an apology, or drown in their warm reflexive salivation. Peter can't tell.

Mr. Stark is indeterminable. Of course, Peter could recognize him anywhere by the scent of his skin and iron, product and sweat, clean-cut cigars and electricity. But he can't be memorized. He changes everyday, his actions and touch and breaths in a day, a new cocktail every evening.

There's no clean air for Peter here. Just Mr. Stark and himself. Mr. Stark doesn't lean into him, but his essence does. That's his excuse. 

His clothes are new, unstripped from its thin plastic odor still, wrapped around his shoulders in stiff, broad corners. Mr. Stark would try to wear skyscrapers like they were casual.

Peter focuses on the plastic, and not the florals, the bleeding citrine citrus and the savoury apricot blossom perfume, rich, rich enough to distract from the flaunting musk of human and last night-activities. 

Peter isn't used to this.

The steel cables lifting the elevator, elevating the lift; yet knowing that a person's sense of taste is mostly determined by their sense of smell, is sinking him.

He wonders if he'll recognize the person that got to tangle with Mr. Stark, just by their scent, if it's someone he admires or if it's just someone who wanted to matter. 

It bothers Peter that there is no dirt under Mr. Stark's shoes. He doesn't want the dirt under his shoes to be in his nose, but he does.

He tries to cover his nose, his mouth. He tries to stop breathing. Because he doesn't want to stop, but it's so much. It's so much, the polish, the gel, the sex, the sweetness and the bitterness, irrationality and discomfort, the mellow mallow, the tropical breeze, and the toxic heat. 

"You're getting overwhelmed, aren't you?" Peter nodded. "Like a Spider-Man thing? Yeah."

The shame in his nostrils is permeable, but it's lasting.

"Cut the lights, cut the music." And he backed away. But he doesn't do anything about the smell on his tongue.

The shift in the air is carbon monoxide. An ungentle wind.

"Plea-No, don't go, touch me." 

He feels so stupid when Tony acquiesces, but it's what Peter needs. His hands on him, Peter buried in his neck.

He doesn't want to breathe in any other thing or person. Just this. All he has to do is focus on this. Just this.

When they part... There's a little bit of Peter on Tony Stark.

He doesn't remember the rest of that day very well, but he remembers being teased. "The first touch's a freebie, but I'll have to charge you for the rest, Mr. Parker."


End file.
